


grief can break you

by cowboytime (thegoatz)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Ada Shelby Is A Good Sister, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bar fights, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Grief/Mourning, HO boy there is a lot of stuff going on here, Hurt Arthur Shelby, Hurt Tommy Shelby, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Self-Destructive Tendencies, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Tommy Shelby Is A Good Brother, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, but then he gets some MF Comfort, it's not like. really explicit but it is there, listen. arthur is SO neurodivergent babey, listen. arthur's mental health sure is. Something, listern fr i just really love ada and arthur together im ngl..., the fic is just basically arthur spiraling after john dies, this is set after john dies, this really is uhh p self indulgent-, very unhealthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29356224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoatz/pseuds/cowboytime
Summary: “You’re hurt, Arthur,” Tommy says. There’s no malice to his words, only worry, and it makes something ugly mix inside of Arthur.“You’re hurt, and you’re fucking covered in blood.”
Relationships: Arthur Shelby & Ada Shelby, Arthur Shelby & John Shelby (past), Arthur Shelby & Polly Gray, Arthur Shelby & Tommy Shelby, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	grief can break you

The day after John died was sunny.

It was sunny and Arthur could hear children yelling and laughing outside. 

His whole, entire, _world_ had come crashing down in blood and anguish and _hurt,_ and there were people out there who were happy, overjoyed, _content_.

It felt so intrinsically _wrong_ that it made his skin itch.

It felt wrong because John had died. He had died and Arthur was grieving. Arthur was grieving and the world had carried on, unaffected by it all. It felt so entirely unfair, so unreasonable, so _unkind,_ but if he were to stop lying to himself for just a second then he’d know it to be what was expected.

Life was never going to be kind for his family.

People like him: people who steal and cheat and _kill_ will end up in the ground either because of the rope around their necks or with a bullet between the eyes. It’s almost funny, in a way, because Arthur will die one day, and he’ll join all the people who have been killed because of people like him. What makes them so much different from him?

He doesn’t know and he’s too fucking drunk to be all philosophical.

It’s strange how he comes to terms with his mortality when he’s drunk because he knows that sober he’ll just stay in his mindset of denial, that he’s just doing what he’s doing to help his family, embedded in this little lie that both comforts and revolts him. In the back of his mind, he’s so hauntingly aware that all he’s doing is making everything so much worse whenever he drinks, that all he’s doing is pushing all the _anger_ , the _hate_ , the _sorrow_ , back and back and back until eventually the dam will break, and everything will come crashing down.

Some day, some sorry bastard who he has wronged will be the very fucking person to end his life.

He knows that, but in times like this, he can’t find himself to care. In fact, maybe he’d welcome it.

Whilst sober he feels so much rage inside him, so much _hate_ . It makes him feel ugly inside. The booze helps that. It reduces all the anger so that it just festers inside him, remaining latent: hidden away. He knows that, in the long term, drinking won’t help, but John’s death is still a fresh wound in his heart; it’s still this raw, gaping, _mess_ inside his chest. A small part of him wonders that if he drinks enough that the alcohol will burn away all the enmity inside him, that the sheer amount of it will force all the wrath raging inside him to ebb away, leaving him with just his insides.

Arthur knows that if that happens then he’s losing a big part of himself: after all, his anger made him _him._ He wasn’t known for being calm and peaceful, was he?

But this time it’s different. _Oh,_ so very different.

This time he can almost feel the anger, the hate, the _abhorrence_ , change him. It makes him taste bile on his tongue, and he briefly wonders if he’d cut himself open would his blood be this black, viscous, sludge, clinging to his innards like how sin clings to the devil.

For a moment he thinks he’s dying.

He’s dying and he’s alone.

 _You’re killing me, John,_ he thinks with a laugh that sounds wrong in all the places where it should sound right.

He forces another drink down his throat, and it burns so bad. He’s hoping that soon he’ll just pass out; just being conscious proving to be far too difficult for Arthur to cope with. He thinks he’s going to vomit soon if he doesn’t handle his drink better.

John would probably laugh at him if he saw Arthur like this.

“ _You let yourself_ rot _,”_ John would say.

The thought is bitter in his mind once Arthur realises that he’s not the only one rotting away: that John’s body is in the ground, dead and decomposing. 

His poor little brother.

His vision is blurring and his head feels like it’s splitting in two. It hurts so bad that he fleetingly wonders if this is his body giving up on him, that soon enough he’ll join John in the ground. Arthur ponders for a second if it’s possible to die from grief, and supposes that he’ll find out shortly.

Arthur knows very well that grief can break you, maybe not _kill_ you, per se, no matter if he wants to believe it can or not but it can destroy you. He learned that lesson long ago and at this point, Arthur supposes that it’s almost an old friend.

He’s seen too many people that he cares about die, and he doesn’t know how much more he can take. Arthur can’t lie, he’s thought about wrapping that noose around his neck just one more time, the _right_ way, this time, so it can’t be stopped. It’s been in the back of his mind ever since he learned of John’s death, but if he’s being truly honest with himself, it’s been in the back of his mind ever since the first time.

It never truly left, and, well, Arthur supposes that that’s what the alcohol is for.

And whilst the alcohol drowns out all his thoughts, drowning him in this steady haze so that his head feels light and all that’s left is this dull _ache_ in his chest, the alcohol doesn’t diminish the urges as well as he had hoped.

The rope is looking more and more inviting with every second that passes but something inside him just refuses to _end_ it. It takes him a while to figure out what it is, but when he does it makes a fire burn up inside him.

Arthur wants to hurt.

He wants to hurt himself and hurt others. He wants to get rid of this fresh wave of aggression in a way he knows better than anyone.

He wants to fight.

Whilst he’s not the smartest man to grace the earth, even he knows that in his state he wouldn’t be able to hold his own in a fight. He believes that he can ignore the impulses if he just tries hard enough, that if he just focuses enough on clenching and unclenching his hands, breathing in and breathing out then everything will be okay.

After far too long, he thinks that he finally has his temper under control; he can no longer _feel_ the thudding of his heart in his chest; can no longer hear his blood rushing in his ears; can no longer suffocate in the rage that had consumed him.

He feels… calm.

Calm and extremely fucking drunk.

He feels this beaming sense of pride fill him, satisfied that he managed to ignore the urges but as soon as that satisfaction came, so did the wave of doubt, the self-loathing, the just pure animalistic _need_ to feel pain, whether it be his own or someone else’s.

He doesn’t think he’s as strong as he believed himself to be.

His head falls into his hands. 

His brother is dead. He’s rotting. He’s not coming back, and Arthur is sitting alone trying to stop himself from doing the very fucking thing that made him Arthur Shelby.

He can’t beat the impulses any longer; he can’t stay in this fucking _room_ any longer because he thinks that he’s going to be sick.

Arthur’s legs give out underneath him when he tries to stand, and he ends up knocking over his glass and causing the alcohol to spill off the table he was sitting at and drip down onto the floor.

He assumes that he should clean it up, but his body refuses to co-operate. He stays there on his knees staring at the steady droplets of whiskey stain onto the carpet. It’s almost hypnotic. He feels as if he’s not connected to his body, that he’s just present: just drifting in his mind. He’s aware that he should move, that he _could_ move, but he doesn’t and he’s unsure as to why, he can feel air ghosting over his lips as he breathes in and out, but it doesn’t feel right.

He takes in a big lungful of air and suddenly everything is too much all at once. The stench of the alcohol sears his nose, the burn of it in his stomach makes him feel nauseous, the discomfort of it all makes his vision go blurry, and he’s doubling over and heaving up all the contents of his stomach before he can even make the move to go outside.

By the time he’s finished, his throat is scalding and his face is wet and if only John could see him now.

His head is aching and he wants to lie down and just _sleep_. He wants to _sleep_ and _sleep_ and _sleep_ and never wake up because everything hurts so fucking _much_ and he doesn’t know how much more he can take.

He scrambles to his feet and heads for the door as quickly as he could in his state because he feels as if he stays in that room any longer then he’ll break down even more. That some-fucking-how the very fibres of his being will start to crumble away, breaking apart piece by piece by _piece_ until he’s nothing: until he’s dead and rotting in the ground just like his brother.

The metal of the door handle is bitingly cold but that might just be because his palms are hot and sweaty and they just won’t stop fucking _shaking_. He is a mess, in every sense of the word, and it brings this inane flush of shame to wash over him. He tries to think of what Tommy would say if he saw him like this as he leans his head against the door, and closes his eyes, gathering his thoughts. 

Tommy would probably be angry, right? Or if not angry, then embarrassed. He’d probably scorn Arthur, tell him to get a fucking hold of himself and stop being so fucking _weak_. Tommy would tell Arthur what he thought of him, that he’s a pathetic excuse for the Shelby name, that they’re all so ashamed of him, that Arthur should have taken John’s place in the ground. Tommy would tell him that he wishes Arthur were dead.

His whole body jolts with a sob he didn’t even realise was coming, and he opens his eyes to find that the world is blurred. His hand hurts and he realises that he’s been holding onto the handle so tightly that he’s surprised that his fingers hadn’t broken. He draws in a deep shuddering breath.

He feels so miserable.

But at the same time, he makes a revelation.

His gun feels like lead in his holster, but that would be too kind for him. If he shot himself in the head, then he wouldn’t feel it. It would be too quick, too painless. No, he wants to be alive tomorrow and hurt, to feel something that isn’t just despair. 

He feels too wrapped up in his head, he needs it to ground himself, before he decays even further.

He’s aware that he could just go and get laid. Maybe he could pay them extra to slap or choke him as they fuck. He could get them to bruise him, to make him bleed but the ache to just _hurt_ is bone-deep and something that a quick fuck won’t achieve.

He knows what he needs to do, and collects himself as best he can before leaving the room. The prickling cold air is sobering and the chill relieves some tension, although the solid weight of apprehensiveness and loathing in his gut makes his very being itch with uncomfortableness. 

There’s a place he has in mind that’ll make everything better, he’s sure of it because if it doesn’t then he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He lets out a quiet sigh, pulling himself together as best he can before he starts walking.

As he gets closer to the pub, he hears laughing and chatting and singing come from inside, and pauses just before he walks inside. He takes a second to wonder if this is perhaps the right thing to do, that maybe, just _maybe_ , he was being slightly reckless. But it was either that or go back home, and he didn’t bother cleaning up after himself before he left, and just even imagining the stench makes his stomach churn.

His chest still feels heavy; it hasn’t felt light ever since he heard about John’s death. He just wants to forget everything.

Arthur takes one last deep breath before walking in.

The atmosphere changed almost immediately and it’s almost comical. The laughs and the singing and the chatting stops instantly, and he’s well aware of all the looks he’s receiving.

He was rather careful in choosing the IRA’s favourite pub because there was no way in hell that he’d start a fight in the Garrison, and he definitely doesn’t want to go back to the ring - there are too many bad memories there, and after all the whole fucking point of this was to stop remembering.

He guesses it’s quite humorous that he was so meticulous about going to a place where he was no doubt going to be so very careless, because it doesn’t take a genius to know that the Shelby’s aren’t particularly liked, both in general and especially by the IRA. Although luckily, or unluckily Arthur doesn’t quite know yet, there weren’t as many people in the pub as he suspected there usually was.

But that thought is for another time because he’s very much aware he hasn’t moved for a little while, and whilst he enjoys the attention: the pure _loathing_ that’s directed towards him, he can’t let his intentions be clear just yet.

He strolls over to the bar, ignoring all the glares that he receives as he does so, and leans against it in an overly suave manner, a façade he’s perfected over the years.

Arthur reaches into his pocket and brings out a shilling, as a bit of a sweetener, because no smart barman would turn down a shilling, and puts it pointedly down on the bar counter, pushing it towards the barman with his finger.

“Whiskey,” Arthur says, his voice gruff, with a small jerk of his head, his voice the only noise in the otherwise silent pub.

The barman eyes him suspiciously, and, well, that doesn’t surprise Arthur in the slightest.

He takes a tentative step towards Arthur and hesitantly takes the shilling.

“I hope you’re not here to cause trouble,” the barman asks, his Irish accent thick and prominent. It makes Arthur’s presence there feel even more out of place.

Arthur feigns shock and holds his hands up defensively, “I just came here for a drink.”

He’s well aware that the barman doesn’t believe him in the slightest, and he came prepared: Arthur had given it some thought on his way over, and had guessed that Arthur Shelby, a man so very well known for causing fights, walking into your pub would cause even the most nonchalant of people to be alarmed.

He has to trick the barman into thinking that his intentions were pure… or at least as pure as they could be in a place like this.

So Arthur gives a brief glance to the rest of the people in the pub like he’s making sure that no-one was listening in, before leaning over the bar slightly and letting his voice come out coarse, uptight, apprehensive even, as he lies.

“I, uh-” Arthur pauses to tilt his head and let a fake grimace, of some sorts, form on his face, “-had a bit of a falling out with my family.”

He doesn’t clarify precisely _who_ his family is, because even people with half a brain could figure that out, and the barman nods understandingly. 

“We ain’t on speaking terms no more, and well-” he pauses again, staying silent for a few seconds and he can just _sense_ all the straining of ears as people try to listen in on what he’s saying, “-they all hang around the place I usually go, and…”

He trails off with a shrug of his shoulders. He’s aware that he doesn’t need to speak anymore: that he’s got the barman wrapped around his little finger. It pleases him on some sick level that he’s not entirely useless. That whilst he’s not the smartest nor the best at drumming up money like Tommy is, he can still trick people into doing what he wants.

He briefly wonders if John would be proud of him, but quickly smothers the thought because _he can’t think of John now_.

Arthur looks up at him and is met with a curt nod before the barman is addressing the whole pub with a shout, telling them to mind their own business.

The whole pub suddenly bursts into life and vigour, acting as if they hadn’t just been caught listening in, and Arthur has to try his hardest not to let a smirk show on his face. Some people were just so easily manipulated that he _almost_ felt sorry for them, but knowing that in a little while they’ll probably be beating the shit out of him, he can’t really find any complete sympathy for them.

“Can I have my whiskey now?” Arthur says.

“Scottish or Irish?”

He thinks that whilst he’s there, he might as well have it.

”Irish.”

The glass is placed in front of him almost immediately, and his stomach lurches. Whilst he’s sobered up decently, the alcohol is still thrumming through his veins, and he didn’t think the glass of whiskey in front of him would have this much of an effect on him. 

He feels sick again but swallows it down with the whiskey.

Arthur tries not to make a face as it burns his throat, succeeding moderately. He’s very aware of the warmth festering in his stomach, and he reminds himself not to go too far off the edge. There’s no point getting into a fight if he’s too pissed to stand.

He carefully nurses his drink, hunching over himself and staying quiet. He knows there’s no point looking for trouble when, probably sooner than later, trouble will find him first. He tries to listen in on what other people are saying, but the noise is too loud for him to make out a solid conversation, although he hears his name being sneered more times than he can count.

Soon enough, he senses the presence of another person beside him, close enough so that Arthur can tell the person is just itching to talk to him, but far enough away so that they aren’t touching. Arthur keeps his head trained forward but looks out of the corner of his eyes to see a man who’s probably a little older than him. The man orders a beer, but when he gets it, he doesn’t bother moving from his place next to Arthur.

“Say,” the man starts after a while, leaning closer to Arthur and lowering his voice, “what the fuck is a _Shelby_ doing in a place like this?”

Arthur clenches his jaw before inhaling a quiet breath through his nose, he guesses this is it then. He turns his head so he’s looking at the man. He’s one ugly fucker, that’s for sure, and Arthur can tell that he has a hell of a lot to prove. Arthur has to try and not grimace when he smells the stench of the man’s breath. It smells like booze mixed with trash and for a second he thinks he might gag.

He swallows thickly, silently willing himself to keep his composure, and shrugs his shoulders, “just came here for a drink.”

For emphasis, he reaches down and picks up his glass of whiskey, waving it around in the man’s face before moving to take a swig of it. But before the glass touches his lips, the man reaches forward and grabs the glass from his hand. It’s done messily and whiskey spills over the side, onto the counter and onto his shirt, but before Arthur can say anything, the man downs the remainder of the whiskey in one, slamming the empty glass down onto the bar counter once he’s done.

It irritates him deeply that that man has the _gall_ to do that, but he keeps his face neutral, offering him nothing more than a raised eyebrow. The man wants a rise from him, but Arthur won’t give it to him… at least not _yet_.

“Ain’t you got somewhere else to be?” the man sneers, but Arthur says nothing.

“I mean, I heard that uh-” the man pauses to nudge Arthur’s arm with his elbow, a move that makes it seem as if they were old friends, and it makes anger burn inside the pit of his stomach. This is definitely it, he just has to wait for the right moment.

“Poor old Johnny boy bit the dust.”

There’s a jovial tone to his voice like he’s laughing at the fact that his little brother is dead. Arthur clenches his jaw so tightly that he _swears_ he can feel his teeth cracking in his skull.

“And then you come in here, I mean,” the man laughs, loudly, and Arthur’s only just realised that the pub has gotten silent again, and half of him wishes it wasn’t: that half of him wishes that the pub would be loud and vociferous like before, wishes that they wouldn’t listen in on this man laughing and joking about his little brother’s death.

The other half of him wants them to listen, wants them to _watch_ so that they all can see when he _kills_ this man for even thinking about laughing at his fucking family.

Arthur’s taken out of his train of thought when the man sneers at him, “it’s almost like you wanna join him.”

Arthur feels like he might scream, but he doesn’t know if it’s out of anger or sorrow, out of hatred or out of despair. But there’s a fire burning inside him now, and he _almost_ thanks the man because this _, this,_ is exactly what he needed, what he had been waiting for.

He turns to face the man, gets a good, _proper_ , look at him. He’s taller than Arthur but that just means it’ll be more satisfying to make him fall, and _oh_ how he wants to do that.

The man’s words _sting_ , and for a second, Arthur’s convinced that he’s going to _kill_ this man.

He doesn’t even give the man a chance to say something else before he’s grabbing the empty glass on the bar and slamming it as hard as he possibly could into the side of the man’s face. Arthur can see, can _feel_ , the shards of glass shatter apart, embedding themselves in the man’s face, and Arthur’s hand. It briefly sates something animalistic inside him, but the anger doesn’t leave.

The man falls down and connects solidly to the ground with a loud thump.

For a second, the pub is silent, and the man is barely moving, groaning on the floor with a hand clutching his head, and for a moment, he considers finishing the job, but Arthur’s hand _throbs_ and he realises that it wasn’t the smartest move to damage his hand, especially when he needed them to fight, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

He looks over at the other people in the pub, most of them are probably half pissed, but Arthur doesn’t doubt that they’d try and fight anyway.

He sees the men glance at each other, silently communicating about whether or not they should participate, and for a second, Arthur, somewhat foolishly, thinks that they might back down. But as soon as that thought comes, shit hits the fan, and everything comes crashing down.

A man yells as he runs at Arthur, and he barely gets a look at the man before there are two hands on his chest pushing and pushing and _pushing_ him so hard backwards that he topples over the counter of the bar. An involuntary groan escapes his lips as he hits the floor, and looks up to see the barman quickly shying out of the way of the fight, heading into a different room to get away. 

_Smart man_ , Arthur thinks as he pushes himself up off the floor.

He thinks that it’s fair to say that everything has gone to complete _shit_. Tables have been turned over, drinks and glass are spilt all over the ground, the sound of punches being thrown and men yelling almost deafen him. People are fighting everywhere, and when he walked in he had no fucking clue that it was going to be like _this_. A part of him warns him to stay away, to _leave_ whilst he still can, but a bigger, stronger, more primal part of him is feeling more alive than ever.

The man that pushed him has jumped over the bar himself and Arthur takes his attention away from the utter _shit-show_ to duck under a punch aimed for his head with well-practised ease. He surges forward at the man, using his shoulder to shove him backwards. The man stumbles backwards with a grunt but doesn’t fall, and Arthur keeps his eyes on the man as his hands blindly fumble around for a weapon.

His fingers find the neck of a bottle, and he wraps his hand around it, with a grin. The man, still reeling slightly, steps forward towards him, the anger on his face is palpable, and if he had been any other person, he might have been scared.

He steps out of the way of another poorly-timed punch, and can’t help the laugh that escapes him as he brings his foot up to the man’s stomach and pushes him back as hard as he could. This time he falls, his back colliding with the bar counter, and as he tries to get up, Arthur strikes him in the head with his knee and feels the crunch of bone on bone as his knee breaks the man’s nose.

He wishes he could feel sympathy, but he really can’t, and a part of him is disgusted by that.

As soon as that man collapses to the floor, another one is behind him, grabbing his arms and preventing him from moving. He lets out a guttural sound, a growl mixed with a grunt, in the back of his throat as he swings his head back as hard and as fast as possible, connecting hard to the bridge of the man’s nose.

The man lets out a sharp cry and lets go of Arthur’s arms, bringing his hands up to nurse his bleeding nose. Arthur stomps the man in his knee, the loud _snap_ of bone ringing out amongst all the yells and screams in the pub. The man falls to his knees, and Arthur swiftly brings down the bottle on top of the man’s head.

It shatters instantly, and Arthur thinks that it’s almost fitting that the bottle he grabbed just so happened to be red wine, because it looks like blood as it spills out over his head, staining his clothes and the ground.

He thinks that he’s sick for finding some level of cathartics from the image.

The man slumps forward and doesn’t get up.

The adrenaline is coursing through his veins, and his heart is beating so fast, so _loud_ , in his ears. He sets his sight on another unfortunate bastard and heads towards him because Arthur thinks that if he doesn’t expel this excess of energy anytime soon then something bad - or somehow worse than this - might happen.

Once he reaches him, Arthur’s hands clamp down on the man’s shoulder, spinning him around, and doesn’t react quick enough to dodge the punch that the man throws his way, connecting to the side of his head solidly and causing Arthur to let out a cry of pain. The momentum of the punch throws Arthur sideways, causing his side to connect harshly to a table, and the man moves forward, using the drive to push Arthur onto the table where he wraps his dirty, _grimy_ , hands around Arthur’s throat.

The man has more leverage over Arthur, and as hard as he tries, Arthur can’t pry the calloused fingers away from his throat which works hard under the man’s hands, trying to suck in even just the tiniest amount of air so that he could just _breathe_. Arthur’s hands find the man’s face, clawing desperately, and Arthur can feel the man’s skin peel under his fingernails.

His legs are flailing wildly as they hang off the edge of the table, just barely centimetres from being able to touch the ground, and _fuck_ , why couldn’t he just be an _inch_ taller.

He feels lightheaded, and black dots are swimming in his vision. He can hear his own gasps for air and they’re so fucking _loud_ that he thinks his head might just explode with pain.

The edge of his knee manages to connect with the man’s hip, causing him to loosen his grip slightly. Arthur takes the brief respite to take in as deep a breath as he could, lifting his head as high as possible to see where to aim next. He brings his leg up and kicks the man _right_ in the dick, and never before has something been so satisfying.

The man instantly recoils backwards, releasing his grip from around Arthur’s throat, and he takes the opportunity to push the man back with a kick to his chest. He falls to the floor, his back thumping loudly against the wooden floorboards of the pub. The man is on his knees when Arthur gets off the table and strides over to him.

He doesn’t hesitate before he’s wrapping his hands around the man’s head, curling his fingers in his hair, and is slamming his head into the bar. The noise makes his stomach lurch, and for a second he thinks that he might be sick right then and there, but all the emotions are running through him, and he thinks he might be losing control.

He slams the man’s head into the bar as he thinks about the pain in his throat, about the fact that he nearly fucking _died,_ but somehow didn’t. 

He slams the man’s head into the bar as he thinks about how the man couldn’t even finish the fucking job.

He slams the man’s head into the bar as he thinks about John. 

He slams the man’s head into the bar as he thinks about how he is alive, and his little brother isn’t. 

He slams the man’s head into the bar over and over and over again as he screams so hard that the pain in his throat worsens, and all that comes out is a broken cry as his voice cracks and wavers. He doesn’t stop because he can’t get out of his head that everything is so fucking _fucked_ and that if John is dead then they aren’t as invincible as he thought they were. And if they aren’t as invincible as he thought they were then who’s next?

He pauses for a second, the man’s limp body strewn out beneath his feet, his head is now caved-in and bloody and mangled between his hands. There’s wetness under his hands, and Arthur can see the blood from in between his fingers.

If John’s dead, then it’s only a matter of time before they all are as well. What if, as well as John, he will have to stand by and watch as they buried Ada, or Finn, or Polly, or, _hell_ , what if he had to bury _Tommy_.

What if he was the only one left?

He opens his eyes, but when did he close them? 

He’s met with the man’s head in his hands, his face is red with blood, and Arthur swears he can hear the faint rattle of breath come from him, even though with how loud the bar is, it’s unlikely. He lets out a sickened laugh that gets caught in his throat, because now… _now he’s just lying to himself._

He lets go, watches as the man’s body falls to the ground, and his hands feel like they’re burning. They’re red, and they won’t stop fucking shaking.

Something then collides with the back of him, sending him tumbling forward, and making him collide with the bar, just where he had been slamming that poor man’s head. His head bashes against the _same fucking spot_ , and it’s such a coincidence that it’s almost funny. He can taste the man’s blood on his lips, can feel it on the side of his face, in his hair, and he’s surprised that he didn’t vomit right there and then.

Then hands are grabbing the back of his jacket, fingers digging in, and he’s yanked backwards onto his feet. He’s spun around and fist is instantly colliding with the side of his face.

He doesn’t bother putting his hands up to defend himself as he’s pushed back against the bar, the wood digging into his back as the punches rain down. He doesn’t fight back, he just lets it happen.

The pain is excruciating, and yet it’s almost not enough. As another fist hits him in the stomach, he thinks that he might be crying, either that or he’s been hit in the head so many times that his vision is blurry. He thinks that he can hear the man in front of him sneer, and decides that he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe the man could do him a favour and fucking kill him after all, _someone_ has to keep John company, and Arthur would rather it be him than anyone else in the family.

A final punch, somehow harder than all of the others combined, connects with his face, and he’s sent down to the ground. He opens his eyes as much as he could, not moving, both because he doesn’t particularly want to and because he doesn’t think he could.

There are bodies strewn out everywhere, some in better shape than others, and Arthur quickly finds that keeping his eyes open takes too much out of him, and he closes them again, trying to even his breathing out because his heart is racing so fast.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, it could have been minutes or hours, although he’s leaning towards the latter because, by the time he opens his eyes again, the pub is silent. There aren’t any people standing anymore, and Arthur guesses that if there were, they probably would have left by then.

He lets out a groan as he pushes himself to a kneeling position, the movement being more painful than he ever thought it could be. He rests his head against the floor, taking in deep breaths because when his eyes are open then the room starts to spin. The smell of blood is overwhelming, and his body hurts, and a part of him just wants to lay there and never move again.

He forces himself to open his eyes and takes in his surroundings, takes in all the men laying on the ground, some unconscious, and he supposes some dead. His breath shudders as it leaves him. He moves around so that he’s sitting and he goes to put his head in his hands but pauses once he sees them.

Dried blood is mixed with dirt and dust and grime, and it’s clinging to his skin like how fire clings to the damned. He takes a deep breath to steady his breathing whilst he leans against the wall for support as he makes his way to his feet. His legs are shaking almost as badly as his hands are.

He straightens himself up as best he can and starts to limp over to the bar, hoping to use it to keep him stable as he leaves, not trusting his legs to keep him standing. He’s almost there: so _fucking_ close, but then he trips, whether it’s over his own feet, or a crooked floorboard or something else, Arthur doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know and doesn’t bother to check because that poor bastard whose head he smashed in is just mere centimetres away from his face. The head is turned towards him, eyes open and mouth parted. The man is staring at him, or at least would be if for the fact that he wasn’t fucking _dead_.

The man was dead because Arthur killed him.

It’s almost like the man’s corpse is playing a trick on him because those glassy, _lifeless_ , eyes are somehow so accusing, so disgusted, and Arthur just can’t bear to look anymore. He tears his eyes downwards, away from the man’s head because if he looks at it for much longer he thinks the guilt might suffocate him and realises entirely too late that his chin, his chest, his torso, his _hands_ are all laying in that man’s blood.

He shoots upwards, failing at stumbling to his feet and ends up falling on his ass. His breaths are coming in short pants, reminding him of the ache in his throat, and he looks down at himself, sees the blood staining his shirt, his hands, the smell of it burning his nostrils.

He turns away and throws up.

Or at least, would have if there was anything in his stomach other than alcohol. He dry heaves for what feels like hours, tears filling his eyes, his throat burning so bad and _fuck_ , he doesn’t even know how to begin to describe the misery that he’s embedded in.

Arthur looks down at the pile of vomit, which is basically just stomach acid mixed with alcohol and blood, tears freely falling down his face, and he’s in so much pain, both mentally and physically that he _laughs_.

He fucking laughs because he doesn’t know what else to do and because he’s such a pitiful sight that he’s almost _glad_ that John isn’t alive to see him like this.

The laugh is sickly and it gets caught in his throat. It’s grotesque, manic almost, and either spit or vomit dribbles from his mouth like foam from a rabid dog.

He almost prays that someone will come soon to put him down.

Too much time has passed before he’s wiping his mouth and pushing himself to his feet once more. His legs are just as unsteady as before, but he’s more determined now because, much like his room from before, he feels that if he stays there any longer then it might close in on him.

The pain hurts just as much, if not even more than before, but he grits his teeth, trying to ignore the taste of blood and vomit and alcohol in his mouth. He doesn’t dare wipe the tear tracks from his face, because his hands are covered in blood, and he’s having a hard enough time ignoring the blood under his chin and from his injuries from the fight and on his shirt and on his hands and fucking hell there’s just so much _blood_.

He wills down the panic for just a little bit more because he _needs_ to keep calm.

Arthur’s almost made it to the door, and he allows himself to feel a little hope that maybe things might be okay, but it’s instantly drained from him when he sees a man rise up off the floor in front of him.

It’s the same man that he hit over the head with glass at the start. The very fucker that helped to make his mess, and to say that the man is angry is such a fucking understatement.

He didn’t know a man could look so venomous.

Arthur doesn’t dare move, and his gut twists and turns because the man looks considerably less hurt than he does, even with glass shards sticking out of the side of his face. If they fought, Arthur would undoubtedly lose.

He breathes in and out a deep breath, coming to terms with what is inevitably about to happen quicker than he thought he ever would.

The man reaches to his holster and brings out a gun. 

The barrel is aimed at him and Arthur thinks that this is so fucking wrong because this is too kind for him. He deserves worse.

The hammer clicks and it sounds so loud in his ears. Arthur doesn’t know how he feels about that sound being one of the last things he ever hears and wonders what the last thing that John heard was.

It’s rather fitting, he thinks bitterly, that he’s going to die in a way that’s so similar to his brother.

He closes his eyes and tries to think of something nice: he doesn’t want the last thing he sees to be the ugly bastard who kills him. He thinks of his family when they were all younger, so naïve yet so hopeful. He wishes he could go back there.

Maybe he will. Maybe death will take him back to happier times. Maybe that’s where John is right now, happy and young again, waiting for Arthur to join him.

The sound of a gun being fired makes him jump, and he waits for the pain, waits to see John again, but it never comes.

A body thumps to the ground, and Arthur peeks an eye open to see just what the fuck is going on because he’s meant to be dead, and he doesn’t know how to describe the rush of dread when he realises that he was still alive.

“Arthur, what the _fuck_ happened?” Tommy’s voice is loud and obscene in the otherwise silence of the room.

Arthur doesn’t even bother trying to decipher the look in Tommy’s eyes; he couldn’t even try to because he’s too ashamed to even look at him.

Instead, he looks around the pub, takes in the damage he caused, the bodies lying on the ground, the glass, the _blood_.

He wonders if it’s bad to wish that Tommy hadn’t saved him.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Tommy says, louder this time, more demanding, more _angry_.

Arthur thinks the shame might kill him, but he forces himself to look at Tommy because he doesn’t know if he can deal with it if he makes Tommy even angrier.

“He laughed about John,” Arthur rasps as if that explains everything, not clarifying who _he_ is, but Arthur could tell that Tommy knew better than to ask, at least for now.

Arthur can see through his blurred vision that Tommy is clenching jaw, his nostrils are flaring, and his grip around his revolver is so tight that his knuckles are white. 

For a split second, Arthur thinks that Tommy might shoot him.

But then Tommy softens, impossibly so, and it catches Arthur off guard because Tommy hasn’t given him that look ever since they were kids. It would always happen when Arthur had gotten himself into trouble and he’d go home with his tail between his legs. He always thought that Tommy had been taking pity on him, and the look always used to embarrass Arthur because he was the older brother, _the protector_ , the one in charge, he didn’t make mistakes, or well… shouldn’t have, but he did.

Arthur hates thinking about that: hates thinking about how he should be the one shielding his family, making the money and fighting the battles instead of Tommy, but isn’t.

He’s fucked up one too many times. He isn’t strong enough, isn’t smart enough, just isn’t _good_ enough to be in charge with something that requires so much care, so much delicacy, he knows that it’s for the best, but it's still a bitter pill to swallow.

And now Tommy is giving him that look that solidifies that anathema.

At that moment, Arthur is sure that he detests Tommy, even if deep down he knows, _oh how he knows_ , that that anger, that animosity is just misguided.

“Don’t give me that fucking _look_ , Tommy,” Arthur spits out, his throat aching, all the anger, the grief like venom on his tongue.

Tommy’s expression hardens instantly, just like Arthur knew it would. And whilst, Tommy is better than most at keeping his composure, but Arthur knows exactly how to push his buttons to get the reaction he wants.

He almost laughs because he doesn’t know how quickly he went from not being able to handle Tommy’s fury, to outright _seeking it,_ because believe it or not, even after this, Arthur _still_ wants to hurt.

It’s almost like Tommy can read Arthur’s mind because his stony complexion falls flat, and he’s just left looking sad again.

“You’re hurt, Arthur,” Tommy says. There’s no malice to his words, only worry, and it makes something ugly mix inside of Arthur.

“You’re hurt, and you’re fucking _covered_ in blood.”

Arthur looks down at the dead man in between them. His heart is thudding in his chest, and his head feels like it’s splitting in two. He thinks he’s going to cry again, he can feel it coming, and it just makes everything hurt so much worse because this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. 

Tommy was _supposed_ to shout at him, to yell, to scream at him; he was _supposed_ to tell Arthur that this was the final fucking straw and he was _supposed_ to leave Arthur there, broken.

But instead, he’s still there, concerned, disquieted, _worried_ , even if he doesn’t show it.

Tommy is hurting, Arthur knows he is, he’s just better at hiding it, and now he’s here cleaning up Arthur’s mess. His legs feel weak, and he thinks he might pass out soon. He tries to breathe steadily, closes his eyes because suddenly everything is spinning and he wonders just how badly his head had been hit.

“Arthur?” Tommy says, his voice is gentle, like how one would talk to a child and Arthur doesn’t even want to think about how his father would react to him being talked to like this.

Arthur forces himself to look at Tommy, ignoring how hard it is to do and says, “let’s just go back home, Tommy.”

Tommy nods understandingly but doesn’t say anything, motioning with his head to the door. Arthur takes one step towards him before his legs are giving out, and he’s colliding to the ground with a curse. All it does is somehow make his body hurt worse. 

Tommy’s hands are almost instantly on his arm, helping him to his feet, and Arthur’s surprised because he half-expected Tommy to either laugh or to leave him there. Tommy hooks Arthur’s arm around his shoulders, and Arthur can’t help but lean his weight on him, basking in the small amount of respite it gives him.

“Everyone’s at home, Arthur. Best not keep them waiting,” Tommy tells him, his voice strained slightly from having to bear the brunt of Arthur’s weight as they walk.

Dread squirms its way to the pit of Arthur’s stomach, but he nods anyway, and instead focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, and praying that they don’t meet any more trouble along the way. 

He hadn’t even thought about how everyone else was going to react and finds that when he thinks about it his legs buckle out from under him, and he swears that if it happens any more times then Tommy might just dump him there, and Arthur can’t deny that he wouldn’t blame him.

The walk back home feels so much longer than the walk there, and Arthur supposes it’s because he wasn’t half-beaten to death when he made his first trip, but enough with pedantics. Where the familiar road home would have perhaps once filled Arthur with relief, now only makes his already bad situation feel even _worse_ and Arthur actually contemplates stopping and turning around once their home comes into view, because he’s nothing if not good at running from his problems.

Ada’s the first one out helping them. _She always was the best out of all of us_ , Arthur thinks as she’s sprinting over to his free side and hooking Arthur’s other arm around her shoulders as they make their way inside. Her frantic questions make his head ache more, and he’s grateful that Tommy answers them all for him, even if all his responses are different variations of, “I’ll tell you later.”

They unceremoniously place him in a chair, Ada helping Polly and Finn look around for supplies to help whilst Tommy looks for alcohol. The scene is so similar to how it was after Campbell interrogated him that it brings a smile to his face.

The smile morphs into a grimace when all the memory does is make John’s absence feel more prominent, and thankfully he’s taken out of that line of thought when Tommy slams a bottle of whiskey on the table next to him.

Arthur reaches for it instantly, words of gratitude forming on his tongue, before Tommy is snatching it away, telling him, “I think you’ve had enough alcohol for today, Arthur.”

Arthur opens his mouth to retort, unjust anger building up inside him, but shuts it when he sees Ada shuffling over with a bucket of water in her hands, which she dumps on the table in front of him. She takes a rag out of the water, ringing it through, and starts gently wiping away the blood on his face. A part of him wants to tell Ada that he can do it himself, but the expression on her face convinces him to keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, _Arthur_ ,” she sighs, her voice quiet, and brows knitted together as she concentrates, “what happened to you? You’re covered in so much _blood_.”

He swallows thickly to try and stop his throat from feeling dry and winces at the pain it brings him: he had completely forgotten about that injury and brings up a hand to touch it gently.

“He got into a bar fight, Ada, but don’t worry. Most of the blood’s not his own. If it were, how’d you think he’d still be alive?” Tommy answers before Arthur could even think about responding. 

Arthur looks wearily at him, but Tommy gives him nothing in return, instead looking back at Arthur with an indifference that makes his stomach churn with anxiety. Tommy is the first to look away, taking a too-big swig of the whiskey and consequent puff from his cigarette.

Tommy doesn’t look at him again after that.

“I suppose you’re right,” she says to Tommy, taking a brief break from cleaning the blood from Arthur’s face to give Tommy a glance.

She turns back to him, “you’re okay now though, Arthur,” Ada says to him, and he’s _painfully_ reminded of just how young his little sister is, “ _right?_ ”

His smile is so unbearably _fake_ , but it’s the most convincing one he could pull. Arthur’s well aware that no-one, not even him, falls for it, but he feels like he at least has to try.

“Of course, Ada,” he lies.

They all ignore how raw his voice sounded, whether it be from emotion or the injury he sustained, Arthur doesn’t know; but what he does know is that sooner or later, his family will start to ask questions.

Questions that he doubts he knows the answer to.

Polly and Finn come back before anyone says anything else, bandages in hand, and Arthur doesn’t know whether to consider their sudden appearance a blessing or a curse.

Finn hovers around awkwardly when Polly, not so carefully, grabs Arthur’s hand and places it on the table so that she could get a good look at it. He moves it slightly and feels the twinges of pain come along with the memory of seeing that bastard fall with glass sticking out of his head.

He actively chooses to ignore that that man was the very reason as to why Arthur nearly joined John down in the dirt.

He chooses to ignore it because he finds that when he doesn’t, it makes this ugly feeling well up inside him. It’s a mix of many feelings, too many to name and too many to count, but all that Arthur knows is that the mix of feelings brings out something horrible in him, something that after this night, Arthur never wants to see again.

The, almost, _too_ sharp sting of pain shocks him out of his reverie, and he hisses in a sharp breath between his teeth. He’s about to ask what the _f_ _uck_ that was but then sees a jagged piece of glass sticking out from between Polly’s fingers, and Arthur kind of pieces it together. She throws it down on the table, the sound of glass connecting to wood sounds impossibly loud in his ears. Polly looks wholly unapologetic, probably still angry at him for getting hurt like this, as she reaches back down to take some more shards out. 

He can’t lie though, he hadn’t actually looked at his hand since the injury occurred, and when he did for the first time, he hadn’t expected it to look quite like _that_. 

There’s a _lot_ of blood, Arthur knows that _probably_ most of it isn’t his own, but it still doesn’t quell the sudden wave of nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. The blood has stained from his wrist, up his sleeve, all the way up to his chest. He looks down, ignoring Ada’s huff from where the movement had stopped her from clearing the blood from his face.

When they said that he was covered in blood, they clearly weren’t lying, and he can’t help the sheer wave of panic that engulfs him. He remembers that man’s dead eyes as he had lain in his blood, the blood that even now has clung to him. 

_Most of the blood’s not his own. If it were, how’d you think he’d still be alive?_

Arthur wants to tell Tommy how _wrong_ he is. Because whilst Arthur’s heart is beating, his lungs are working, his brain is reeling, he’s not _living_. If he were, then why would he feel so hopeless? If he were, then it’s no wonder why this world is so fucked because he’s pretty sure that this is just his mind playing a trick on him.

Maybe Tommy never came to save him, maybe that man actually _did_ shoot him, and this is his brain’s perverse way of comforting him as he dies.

His heart is beating so fast in his chest, so loud, that he can’t hear anything other than the blood rushing in his ears. Maybe the blood staining his shirt is his own and he’s going to die soon.

Maybe this is what dying is.

_Is this what John felt?_

A sharp pain in his hand jolts him from that train of thought, and he isn’t able to hide the yelp of pain he felt. Arthur sucks in a deep breath, feels his ribcage expand, and blinks rapidly to see Ada and Polly peering warily at him.

He swallows thickly, ignores the pain, and looks away, embarrassed, trying to control his breathing.

The clatter of glass against wood, no doubt from another shard extracted from his hands, makes him jump unexpectedly.

Ada says his name. She says like a question, and she says it so softly, but it still hurts his ears. He looks back to see her hand, and the rag in her hand so close to his face again. He knows that it’s there to clean the blood; he knows that it’s there because Ada is helping him, _he knows_ that.

But the rag obscures his vision, and all he sees is _it_ , all he can focus on is the blood that it’s drenched in: his blood, _the man’s_ blood.

He moves back, trying to get away from it because he can smell the blood, can _taste_ it, but the chair gets caught on something and he ends up toppling over. His back collides with the ground with a loud thud, and Arthur lets out a pained groan. He hears shouting, hurried questions asking if he’s okay.

Delicate hands are placed on his arm, and he’s not proud of the way that he flinched from the touch. The hands quickly withdraw, and he sees that Ada’s crouched beside him, looking a horrible mix of worried and guilty.

He wants to assure her that she did nothing wrong, he wants to comfort her _as a good older brother should_ , but his mouth is suddenly so dry and he’s too focused on controlling his breathing to console her.

“Ada give him some space,” Arthur hears Tommy say, his voice solid, unwavering, just like Tommy was. Tommy knew what to do, knew when to be strong and when to be weak.

Arthur almost laughs, because it’s in that moment when his heart is just starting to slow down and the tingle on his tongue is starting to fade that Arthur comes to terms with the fact that Tommy was destined to lead from the start.

All those years in denial, because he was the eldest, the protector. _He_ was meant to shield their family, make their money, fight their battles, not Tommy.

But now he knows why and it brings tears to his eyes.

_Tommy was simply just a better man then he’d ever be._

Arthur tries to stop the moisture from building up in his eyes by blinking them away. His next breath hitches and stutters in his throat, and it’s so obvious now that he’s on the verge of crying that he looks down at the ground, unable to bear the looks that everyone else was giving him.

He draws his knees to his chest, ignores the _blood_ and the _dirt_ and the _muck_ on his trousers, and buries his head in his knees. The movement jostles his injuries, but the pain has been so constant that he’s gotten used to the dull ache that it provided. His arms go to bracket the side of his head, hands curled in his hair, and he’s well aware of the shards of glass still embedded in his hand that he’s just pushed deeper in, but he’s so shamed by how loud his next breath is, and he guesses that he should call them sobs because at this point he’s just crying, that he doesn’t even register the pain.

He faintly hears Polly quietly telling Finn to go upstairs to bed, and the subsequent squeaking of the stairs as Finn ascends to his room. It does nothing but add fuel to the fire of guilt burning up inside him.

He can hear people calling this name, but he can’t muster the energy to respond, perfectly content to stay like that until he dies, well not perfectly content because whilst it’s nice, the position he’s in makes it so that his nose and mouth are close to his blood-soaked shirt and the only thing he can smell is blood and it’s almost overwhelming.

 _Almost_.

It’s almost overwhelming because the very thing from keeping him from panicking again is knowing that if he did then surely Ada or Polly or, _hell_ , even Tommy would intervene.

Right now, the last thing he wants to see is them.

“Arthur, can you hear me?” Ada is asking. She sounds worried, but also strong, and Arthur knows he can rely on her.

He takes a deep breath, ignoring the scent of blood as best he could, unfurls his hands from his hair, and nods without lifting his head up.

“Ada, I said give him some fucking _time_ ,” Tommy’s voice is sharp. He’s angry, and Arthur almost misses the concern lacing his voice.

“ _Shut the fuck up, Tommy_ ,” Ada is biting back, and Arthur can’t help but smile to himself. If the situation had been less tense, he probably would have laughed, “he’s responding to me.”

Arthur can hear Tommy’s sharp inhale but his words are cut off by Polly, “Tommy, I think Ada can handle this by herself. Why don’t we leave them alone for a bit?”

Tommy makes a noise of annoyance, but Arthur assumes that he’s nodded his head because he can hear two sets of shoes walking away into the other room.

He’s almost unprepared for the gentleness of Ada’s voice, she’s asking if he’s okay, to which he responds with another nod. She places a hand on his back, and whilst it startles him slightly, it doesn’t make him flinch away like before.

“Can you look at me, Arthur?”

His heart jumps a little in his chest at the question, but in hindsight, he probably should have expected it. Slowly he lifts his head up to look at Ada, and from the pure sorrow on her face, he must have looked like _shit_.

“ _Oh, Arthur_ ,” she whispers, and for a second he thinks that she might start crying. The guilt is back, festering and bubbling up inside him. It makes his insides burn.

“I hope whoever did this to you is _dead_.”

Arthur’s taken aback by the pure venom in her tone, and he supposes that’s his own fault, he forgot what life like this does to a person. When she was younger, Ada used to be the sweetest little girl, and Arthur had tried so _damn hard_ to keep her out of this life, they all had, but in the end, it had failed and she ended up wrapped up in it all anyway.

Upon seeing the look on his face, Ada softened, impossibly so, like all fight, all anger, had been taken out of her.

“We need to get you patched up, Arthur. Your hand still has glass in it and still needs to be bandaged, your face is still bloody, not to mention that bruise on your neck and probably countless others god knows where else, and you _really_ need to tell us, or- or me, just what the _fuck_ happened to you bec-”

“I’m _tired_ , Ada,” Arthur blurts out, his voice chafed, trying to come up with an excuse, and he guesses that it’s not a complete lie because he is pretty fucking tired, but the sheer thought of just explaining what happened, what Arthur did to that man - and how he swears he can still see his lifeless eyes staring at him - makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Ada lets out a quiet breath and nods her head, “of course you are, Arthur. God knows what you’ve been through.”

She pauses for a second her hand coming up to carefully push back his hair from where it had fallen down in front of his face, clearly thinking how to word what she wants to say next, “look, how about this, I finish taking the glass out of your hand and bandage it up, then we finish cleaning up your face and then you can go to sleep, yeah? We can deal with everything else in the morning.”

Arthur nods his head and starts to stand up, lightly swatting away Ada’s hand when it’s placed on his arm to steady him when he starts to sway. He rests against the table when his legs start to shake. He would use his hand to balance himself, but he’s already made the damage to it so much worse and doesn’t want to prolong the time it would take before he can finally try and sleep.

Ada picks up the chair from where it had fallen over and tells Arthur to sit in it whilst she gets clean water and some fresh clothes. He slumps down in it, and the chair groans with his weight.

He’s alone again.

He’s alone and it both comforts and terrifies him.

Arthur takes a second to just breathe, to _feel_. His body aches like it never had before, and he supposes that when he set out this is what he had wanted. He _still_ would have wanted this if it weren’t for the pain it brought his family.

They don’t realise that he had noticed every single look they gave him. At all times, at least one of them was looking at him as if they were keeping an eye on him. Like he was dangerous: like he shouldn’t be trusted alone. A part of him wonders if the real reason why Tommy was so reluctant about leaving was that he thought that Arthur would _hurt_ someone or some _shit_ like that.

He clenches his fist to contain his anger and hisses loudly at the pain it brought him. Or maybe _that’s_ why Tommy didn’t want to leave him alone: because when he’s alone all he manages to do is hurt himself, whether it’s intentional or not.

He looks down at his damaged hand, wonders if he’ll ever be able to box again. He draws in a shaky breath, his vision clouding again and why can’t he just get a _hold of himself for a_ fucking _second_. He wipes his eyes with a clean part of his hand and feels the anger, the _resentment_ building up inside.

He lets out a pained noise as he exhales, and he’s so glad that no-one else was there to hear it.

Arthur places his damaged hand on the table, sees the glass sticking out and _doesn’t even_ think _, doesn’t even_ hesitate before he’s reaching forward and tearing a shard out from his hand. The pain is _unbearably_ sharp, and it makes his eyes water, but he grits his jaw so hard he thinks he can hear his teeth cracking. He throws the shard down next to the others and looks for the next, ignoring the blood starting to flow from the wound due to his carelessness.

He carries on until Ada comes back, and at that point, he thinks he might pass out from the pain. She yells his name, and due to the sounds of water sloshing around and hitting the floor, he guesses that she almost dropped the water bucket in surprise. The clatter of metal against wood is loud, and he can’t help his wince.

“ _Arthur, what the fuck did you do?_ ” Ada asks, and he so desperately wants to apologise, because he can hear the fear in her voice, and he feels sick at even the thought of causing his little sister to feel like this. He tries to apologise, tries to say sorry, but the pain is too overwhelming and every time he opens his mouth, his hand throbs and he instantly closes it again to bite down on his grimace.

Arthur shouldn’t be surprised when he sees Polly and Tommy run into the room, but for some reason he is.

Instantly Tommy’s voice is speaking, loud, and powerful, and angry, “Ada _what the fuck happened_ , I thought you could _handle_ this.”

Arthur doesn’t really know why everyone sounds so worried, sure his hand hurts a lot, and he’s feeling a little lightheaded but it’s nothing extreme. He takes a quick glance at his hand and instantly his stomach drops.

That’s quite a lot of blood.

He looks away almost immediately because if he looks at his hand for any longer he thinks that he might throw up, and if he does that then this already fucked up situation will be _even more_ fucked up.

Polly moves Ada to the side, and peers over at his hand before turning to him. She doesn’t say anything to him, but he can see through his clouded vision just how worried she looks.

She’s calmer than Ada is, though, that’s for sure because Arthur can still hear her panicked breaths as she tries to say something, _anything_ , over the sound of blood rushing to his ears. He blinks rapidly, trying to concentrate, trying to focus on something because his head is starting to feel heavy, and a part of him wonders if he’s _dying_.

He sees Polly wrapping his hand in bandages, but can’t feel it, and for a second he feels like he’s floating, that he’s just watching as the blood seeps through the bandage just before Polly wraps another layer over it.

He doesn’t think he can feel his body anymore. It’s all just numb, and even the voices of his family are becoming quiet.

He tries to open his eyes, not remembering exactly when they had closed but finds that it’s too difficult, so he stops trying.

He lets his head slump forward, lets his body relax and just _sleeps_.

Arthur can see the man’s lifeless eyes in front of him. 

His eyes are glassy, clouded over, yet the man stands tall. His skull is misshapen, dented in, and blood dribbles endlessly down his face, dripping onto the floor. The man doesn’t speak, he just stands there, just stares directly at Arthur, like a plague.

No matter what Arthur tries to do, he can’t escape him. He’s there, all the time. Arthur can’t look away; he tries to, but it doesn’t work. Arthur realises that he might just die here.

He thinks that it’s a fitting way for him to go.

The man steps forwards, and he does so again, and he continues to walk towards Arthur, his expression never changing, until suddenly he’s too close, looming over him like a ghost. Arthur tries to run, tries to leave but his legs won’t move.

The man reaches for him, and no matter how hard Arthur wants to struggle, his body remains still. He feels the man’s cold hands wrap around his throat, his fingers digging into his skin, and he finds that he can’t breathe.

Arthur thinks that this _must_ be real somehow, because how else is the man here, killing him. A part of him is frightened at just how willing his body was to give up because he’s violently taken back to when this shit happened, and he remembers his utter desperation to escape from the man’s clutches.

What had happened to him?

Why was he such a fucking _mess_?

He awakens with a gasp so loud that it rings in his ears. His whole body aches in a way that he never thought could be possible. He looks around the room as he tries to even out his breathing, taking in big lungfuls of air in an attempt to calm himself, but finds that he can’t really make out anything because of just how dark it has gotten. A sudden wave of nausea overpowers him and he’s clenching his eyes shut, trying to quell down the feeling.

Once he’s sure that he won’t throw up, he fumbles around for the light with one hand as he brings up the other to massage his throat, finding that it has become extremely dry. The feeling of the bandage rubbing against his skin is oddly soothing to him. 

He looked down at his lap, once the light had been turned on, the covers of the bed he’d been placed in ar pooled in a pile on the ground. He assumes they must have fallen off him during that dream, although, he supposes that he really should have called it a nightmare because no dream that he’s ever had has left him feeling that rattled.

It takes him almost entirely too long to realise that he isn’t even in _his_ room. He lets out a hollow laugh at the realisation that he really might be losing his mind.

He’s in Tommy’s room. 

He feels like he can’t bear to be sitting down any longer and pushes himself up off the bed. His legs wobble at first, but he perseveres and remains tall. His stomach rumbles, and he wonders how long it’s been since he’s last eaten. 

Arthur uses the wall to help him as he walks, keeping a hand on it to keep him stable as his legs inevitably get used to suddenly being used as much as they were. He reaches the door and opens it as quietly as he could, peering out cautiously, as if he’s sneaking out after dark and trying not to get caught. He knows that it’s an asinine thought, but he can’t help the sudden feeling that he’s about to impose on something that he’s not meant to know about.

He leaves the room, the door remaining open, and finds that the hallway is even darker than the room he was in. He looks to his left, and sees a light coming from downstairs, and starts to head towards it. Arthur reaches the top of the stairs with relative ease, and can’t help the small amount of pride that fills him.

Arthur was just about to start walking down the stairs, but pauses, his leg hovering over the step, once he hears voices coming from below.

He can tell that the voices belong to Polly and Tommy and strains his ears to hear what they’re saying.

_“You have to be patient, Tommy.”_

_“You don’t know what it was like there, Pol. The man was aiming his gun right at Arthur’s head.”_

_“You did what you had to do. We all know that.”_

_“But you_ don’t _fucking get it, Pol, I shot the man and the_ fucking… _the way that Arthur looked at me when he realised I was there, it was like he was-”_ Tommy pauses, and a few uncomfortable seconds pass, “ _-like he was disappointed that he wasn’t fucking dead.”_

The silence that comes afterwards is unbearable and a fresh flush of shame washes over him. He tries to ignore how Tommy’s voice cracked at the end, tries to ignore how he swears he can hear _crying_. Arthur takes in a deep stuttery breath, trying to keep his composure.

He turns around and hurries back to his - _Tommy’s_ \- room, before he can truly wrap his head around what he just heard because he knows that he’ll probably do something foolish if he’s not careful, and doubts that his body could hold out.

Arthur closed the door behind him louder than he probably should have, but he feels as if his legs are going to give out any second, and is focusing on too many things to be concerned about a fucking _door_.

He stumbles a little but thankfully doesn’t fall before he reaches his bed. His _ribs_ and his _chest_ and his _legs_ and his _hands_ and his _arms_ and his _body_ and his _head_ just aches, as he sits down gently on his bed. He hunches over himself, putting his head in his hands to try and soothe the pounding of his head.

He sees the bandages wrapped around his torso, and almost scoffs because how had he not noticed them before? He presses a hand against his ribs and lets out a soft hiss as even the littlest of touches sparks a burning hot pain.

Arthur tries to focus on the pain, tries to focus on his breathing, tries to focus on anything in order to ignore _everything_ that he just heard because he has _never_ heard Tommy sound like that before, least of all because of _him_.

It makes something rotten well up inside him.

His fingers curl around one of the many bandages wrapped around his battered body.

Tommy, and Ada and Polly and Finn, they had all lost John too. They were still grieving over John’s death, and Arthur had nearly added another person for them to mourn.

He grips the bandage tightly and rips it away from his body, his arm aching from the strain. His vision is blurry once again, and he realises that he’s crying too as he undoes every, _single_ , bandage away from his torso.

They’re a matted heap on the ground, alongside his blanket. His body is shaking from the mix of overexertion and pain, and he brings up a trembling hand to wipe his face. He looks down at his body. Sees all the bruises, the welts and the marks littering his skin, and feels so utterly vile, both inside and out.

He hears his name being said, the voice surprised, anxious, but not loud enough to attract the people from downstairs. His head snaps up and doesn’t know whether to be relieved or worried to see Ada standing there. His brain briefly reminds him that this is the second time that she’s caught him like this.

She hurries over to him, quickly placing the things she was carrying onto the bedside table.

“Arthur, what have you _done_?” Ada says disbelievingly, hovering over him like she was worried that he'd suddenly just spontaneously combust.

Arthur stays silent and looks down because he can’t bear to see the disappointment that is undoubtedly on her face. He hears a quiet sigh come from her.

“You should be in bed.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She frowns when she hears the gruffness of his voice and hands him a glass of water.

“Drink this,” she tells him, and he does so almost immediately, still not making eye contact with her, “you’ve been asleep for over a day now.”

Arthur almost chokes on his water, _finally_ looking up at her incredulously, “over a _day?_ ”

She nods her head, but says nothing else, waiting patiently for Arthur to finish his drink. The air is somewhat awkward, and Ada takes to picking up the blanket and bandages up off the floor so that she can at least _look_ as if she isn’t keeping her eyes trained on him in case he keels over.

Arthur hears her take in a deep breath before she asks, “why did you take this off?”

Her voice is gentle, and Arthur feels as if he _owes_ her an explanation of some sorts, and he opens his mouth to respond, but finds that he doesn’t have a reason which won’t make him feel embarrassed.

Luckily, she senses that it’s best he doesn’t answer and instead says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “you’re lucky I came up here to change your bandages.” 

Arthur turns his attention to the things that Ada placed down on the table, and well… she wasn’t lying. On the table are bandages and some food, and stomach tenses at the thought of eating, both desperately wanting food and feeling nauseous at the sight of it.

“You should probably eat, Arthur,” Ada tells him, and when he looks at her he finds that she’s staring directly at him, “you look so pale.”

He looks over at the plate of food. He’s aware that he could reach over to it, that he should reach over to it and eat because he didn’t realise how hungry he was before, but there’s just something that’s stopping him.

He looks over to his sister once more, “c- can I be alone whilst I eat?”

Ada looks somewhat startled by the question, and Arthur’s aware that she is perfectly allowed to deny his request on the basis that practically every _fucking_ time he’s been left by himself he has, somehow, caused _pain_ and _damage_ and _hurt_.

“ _Please?_ ”

He sees her swallow thickly, unsure of what to say, he knows that she’s pondering what his response will be if she says no, what he might just do if he _is_ left alone. But when he looks at her eyes, and she looks back at him, her eyes are so soft, and Arthur can tell that his little sister loves him so much, and he has to force himself to look away lest he does something stupid in an emotional outburst.

“Of course, Arthur.”

He doesn’t look at her as she leaves, and barely acknowledges it when she tells him that she’ll wait outside until he’s finished. He can feel his vision blurring once more but paws at his eyes until the tears are no longer threatening to manifest.

Still, after all this _shit_. After all he’s put her through, all the pain and worry and fear he’s caused her, she still loves him. He sucks in a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to calm himself.

He starts to think about how much better his family deserves, but cuts off the thought before it can poison his mind.

His family needs him strong. After John’s death, they need him to be more durable than _ever_. They need him to be everything that he hasn’t been, and at that moment he swears to himself, swears to his family that he will _not_ let them down again.

He calls Ada in, his voice stronger than he thought it could be.

She opens the door a couple of seconds later and walks in. She looks confused when she realises that he hasn’t eaten anything.

“Arthur, I thought you w-”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur interrupts, his voice sturdy, solid, definite.

Her brows furrow in bewilderment, “what for?”

Arthur lets out a huff of air that could be misconstrued as a laugh, “this-” he motions wildly at nothing in particular, “- an- and fucking _this_ -” he says as this time he motions at his body, at the bruises and welts and marks that stain his skin.

Ada’s expression turns from confusion to sadness, and she shakes her head, “Arthur that’s not-”

“I fucked up, Ada,” Arthur interrupts again before Ada can finish her sentence. He _knows_ what she was going to tell him.

_That’s not your fault._

Arthur wants to believe her, he does, _so badly_ , but he’s not ready nor willing to forgive himself, at least not yet.

“Arthur, it’s oka-”

“No, Ada, you don’t _fucking_ understand. _I fucked up so bad._ ”

The sadness on Ada’s face morphs into anxiety, and she takes a small tentative step towards him, “what are you talking about?”

“I- I _killed_ someone, Ada,” Arthur’s voice has lost the strength that it had before, and now just sounds so anguished that Ada immediately surges forwards, sitting down on the bed next to him and pulls him in a bone-crushing embrace. 

His body completely aches from it all, all the bruises on his body being agitated by the movement as he wraps his arms around her, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, but he finds that he really doesn’t care because he’s crying into Ada’s shoulder and he thinks that she might be crying as well.

“Ada, _god_ , I fucking-” he pauses to draw in an unsteady breath, one that hitches and gets caught in his throat. He can’t help but think of that man’s head in his hands, of the blood staining and branding his skin. Ada’s talking to him before he goes back down that train of thought.

“It’s alright, Arthur, you don’t have to tell me.”

Arthur just nods his head, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.

A short amount of time passes before Ada is pulling back from the hug, her hands moving down to place themselves on Arthur’s arms. Ada’s eyes are red, and there are tear marks down her cheeks, and the misguided guilt at being the person to make her like this is back, but he stomps it out before it can fester too much.

Arthur’s aware that if Ada looks like a mess, then he is undoubtedly looking much worse, and can’t help the small smile that forms on his face at the thought of it. Ada brings one hand up to gently smooth back some stray strands of hair that have fallen down in front of his face.

She then is speaking once more, telling him decisively, “Arthur it’ll all be okay, I fucking _swear_ it will.”

The pure certainty in her voice, the determination in her eyes, the gentle squeeze of her hands on Arthur’s arms forces him to believe it, to believe _her_ , because she has never led him astray so far.

Arthur brings up his hands to wipe at his face, and finds himself telling her, “I’ll make things okay again, Ada, I promise you. _I’ll be better_.”

She smiles at him, and this time it reaches her eyes. She looks at him like how she did when they were kids and Arthur would fight whoever it was that had made fun of his family, no matter how big and imposing they were. She looked at him like she’s in awe of him, and he can’t help but smile back because he knows that now he has the chance to be the older brother that they all _need_.

“I know you will, Arthur.”


End file.
